


Those Were the Rules

by foxpuppet



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Clothed Sex, Coming In Pants, Confused Clark, Dirty Talk, Emotionally Closed Off Bruce, Hand Jobs, Indirect Hand Job, M/M, No Romance, Short, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-14
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-06-02 03:41:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6549148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxpuppet/pseuds/foxpuppet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce talked, Clark didn’t. Bruce touched, Clark didn’t. Bruce took control, Clark followed along, lost and helpless. Those were the rules.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Those Were the Rules

**Author's Note:**

> Superhero cannon are HUGE. As such all of my Super stories take place in no definite time or space, unless specifically mentioned. I’m pretty much just messing around with the heroes we know and love in a continuity free doll-house where everyone is usually single. Basically: disregard cannon; commence porn.
> 
> Just a quick one I literally bashed out just now. There are way too many run-on sentences. Also wangst. Because I'm a dork. Sorry.

“You like that?” Bruce asked, his voice disturbingly, arousingly, close to the Bat-Voice, rubbing Clark’s dick through his trousers, too too lightly.

Clark pulled his lips between his teeth and bit down to keep from talking. Those were the rules. Bruce talked, Clark didn’t. Bruce touched, Clark didn’t. Bruce took control, Clark followed along, lost and helpless, unknowing of what it was that triggered these encounters, unable to predict, unable to provoke, just hoping every time they were alone together that Bruce was going to shove him against the nearest hard surface and make him writhe.

“Should have figured a tease like you would like the same treatment,” Bruce said, his tone not entirely joking.

Clark didn’t protest, didn’t even moan. Those were the rules. But he felt his brow crease and knew that his look had become confused.

Bruce laughed, the hand became slightly firmer. “You run around in a skin tight body suit. I can practically taste your cock when you wear it. You fly around with your dick at mouth height, practically begging someone to suck it. No wonder so many villains are obsessed with you. Superman is practically a peep show.”

Clark resisted the urge to shake his head, but couldn’t stop a shaky breath from escaping. His toes were curling in his loafers, his fingers digging holes in the stairwell wall (there were similar holes dotting every landing of the stairway) trying to keep from pressing up into that still too light hand.

“I’m not complaining. I love it getting to watch you fight practically naked. Personally I think you should just always be naked, always be ready for me when I want to get my hands on your body,” Bruce continued, smirking at the ridiculousness of his own words, at the idea that he could actually want Clark in any way besides passing and random.

Clark felt heat building behind his eyes. Frustrated tears or heat vision he didn’t know. He blinked rapidly to dampen the feeling but didn’t take his eyes off Bruce. Those were the rules.

Bruce’s finger was delicately tracing the head of Clark’s dick. Clark thought he actually might start crying. He didn’t know if crying was against the rules, he’d never quite gotten that far before, but he didn’t want to risk it. Didn’t want to risk Bruce pulling away, walking away and leaving Clark alone with his lust and confusion.

It had happened before. Before Clark had started to learn what was allowed and what was forbidden.

“You’d love it too, wouldn’t you? Showing off that body, everyone wanting that dick, that arse,” Bruce’s hand sudden gripped roughly, grinding at the head with the heel of his palm. Brutal pressure that would have been painful for a regular man, that felt like bliss to Clark. “Everyone picturing those thighs wrapped around their head, their hips. Licking those abs, biting those nipples, eating out that tight little arsehole. _Devouring_ you with their eyes. But never getting to touch you.”

Clark was panting like a racehorse, his dick so painfully hard. His face was flushed hot with arousal at Bruce’s touch, with embarrassment at his sinful, terrible, sexy words. His muscles were twitching violently with repressed movement. He wanted to thrust, to push, to pull. He wanted to grip Bruce close, to bury his face in that broad shoulder and inhale the man’s lust, if it was even there. But Clark didn’t move, didn’t look away, and didn’t make a sound. Those were the rules.

“No one ever gets to touch the perfect saviour. The demi-god. _Superman_ ,” Bruce said with a twisted smirk. Twisted by what, Clark was too far gone to even begin to decipher. “No one gets to. Except me.”

Then there was no more talk. Just ceaseless grinding pressure, Clark’s breathless panting, and Bruce’s face, so closed off, so detached, even now as he steadily and ruthlessly pulled Clark to pieces.

Clark inhaled sharply through his nose and came in his trousers, the stain spreading wet, obvious and incriminating. Clenching his teeth with enough force to bite through steel he kept in all the noises that wanted to come tumbling out, especially any that sounded damningly like “Bruce.”

The hand kept grinding down roughly, well past the sensation of pleasure, turning Clark into a twitching, gasping mess. Finally, _toosoon_ , finally Bruce pulled his hand away. With one last, indecipherable smirk at Clark he turned and left, unhurried and unruffled. No evidence of the encounter anywhere on him, as always.

Clark didn’t watch him leave, didn’t catch his arm, ask him to stay, ask him why. He didn’t offer to reciprocate, even though he so desperately wanted to. He didn’t utter a sound and he didn’t crumple to the ground, curling in on himself feeling empty and unsatisfied despite his body’s satiation, until he heard the door to the stairway open and shut again, signalling that Bruce had left as quietly and suddenly as he had arrived.

Those were the rules.


End file.
